Cosmic Tumblers Clicking Down

Yesterday was my dear friend Ann Marie’s birthday.

When I met Ann Marie (please forgive me – but it was on March 13, 1992 – I’m insane, and my journals are insane and autistic) – it had been a long time since I had made a new girlfriend. It’s hard to make new friends, when you are an adult. At least, it’s hard for me. But Ann Marie and I … as adults … exploded into such an insane friendship, along the lines of 10 year olds on the playground … that it was as though we were catching up on lost time. Like we SHOULD have been friends as children.

Our friendship was one of passionate intensity, massive psychic connections, and rabid coincidences. Some weird coincidence would come up, Ann Marie and I would glance at each other, and she would nod calmly, stating in a flat voice, “Cosmic tumblers.”

I remember there was one moment, when we were in a larger group, and we said an entire random sentence in complete unison.

There was a pause.

Phil, a mutual friend, then said, “You guys really do speak in unison more than anybody else I have ever met.”

Ann said casually, “We share one brain.”

Ann Marie and I cracked each other up like NOBODY’S business. There was one 24 hour period where we were inseparable, and where – I swear – we laughed non-stop for about 22 of the 24 hours. We were out of control. We begged for mercy. We thought we would never get back to normal, we thought we would have to quit our jobs because we couldn’t stop laughing. Later, we referred to this as our “epic day”, which eventually morphed into us calling it our “Beowulf Day.”

“Member on the Beowulf Day when ….”

March 13, 1992 was a snowy Friday. I had just moved to Chicago from Los Angeles, and was living with my friend Jackie, and in deep mourning over the ending of a relationship. There was one infamous day when Jackie and I made the mistake of watching The Way We Were. I was lying on the couch, and I was wearing a bandana around my head. I was fine one moment, and then the next moment I was SO not fine. Thrashing about in sobs. Jackie later described me as a “weeping chemo victim on my couch” – because of the bandana. Anyway, I was convinced that I would be in mourning for a long long long time.

Then March 13 came along.

In that night alone, I would meet 3 people who would become absolutely essential, not only to my time in Chicago, but to my life in general. Each one of them was what I would term an “angel”, in one way or another.

And I met them all in that one seemingly random night.

Like Ann Marie would say: “Cosmic tumblers”.

Jackie and I went to her favorite improv comedy club, and saw a show. We both were recovering from bronchitis, and had not been out in a long time. March 13 was really my first night out on the town, since coming to Chicago. For the first week or so, I was too much of a “thrashing chemo victim” to go out. And then along came the prison of bronchitis so March 13 was representative of freedom.

That night, after the show, Jackie and I were hanging out in the bar downstairs. And a random man charged over to me (he waited until Jackie was in the bathroom to make his move) and said, “Who ARE you? I’ve never seen you here before. WHO ARE YOU, man?” He kept calling me “man” which I found amusing, and endearing. He was a little bit insane, but I liked him a lot. He was a comedian. He made me laugh. He brought me over to his table of friends to introduce me. He was there with another guy and two girls. Both girls smiled up at me, friendly. There was none of that competitive energy that goes on between women sometimes.

It was over a year later, when Ann Marie and I finally became friends, that we put two and two together – and realized that we had actually met on that night. I was the “redhead” who had come over to their table, and she was the “friendly girl” smiling up at me.

Basically, we met before we met.

We were in awe of that. I had no idea, when I shook hands with Phil’s friends, that one of them would become my new best friend.

Phil (that was the guy’s name) ended up asking me for my phone number. I gave it to him.

Again, it was over a year later when I realized that there was actually a CONTEST going on between Phil and Ann Marie: who could get a phone number the first, over the course of that evening? HAHA. Phil won by scoring my number. I had no idea that I was part of some contest. I remember giving him my phone number, then he walked me to the door of the bar to say good-bye, I was leaving – and, unbeknownst to me, he walked back into the bar, and held up the scrap of paper triumphantly, as everyone broke into cheers. How ridiculous!!

Ann and I were HOWLING with laughter a year later when we put all of this together.

The third person I met that night was the infamous “Max” – another improv comedian (who starred in last week’s journal entry). Phil and I were getting to know each other, talking, flirting, etc. The bar was crowded. Slowly I became aware of someone tapping me on my back. Softly. Insistently. It went on for WAY too long before I realized it was deliberate. I turned and there was Max – tapping me. For no particular reason. Or, not for any reason I could surmise. I had never met him before. Never spoken to him. I said, “Uh – yes?” He shrugged, laughed like a crazy person.

Basically, in his own insane way, he was trying to move in on Phil’s territory. He inserted himself into our conversation. Phil kept trying to get rid of him, but Max would not go away. It wasn’t that Max overwhelmed me with charm, or his good looks, or his smoothness. He was the opposite of smooth. Tapping me like he was an 8 year old kid, and then having NOTHING to say when I gave him my attention.

Max finally gave up, and yet there was something about him. He made an impression.

I gave my phone number to Phil … and it wasn’t until months later – in the middle of that summer – that I met Max again, basically. Same way as it had happened with Ann Marie.

We all met that snowy night in March, and then went our separate ways for many months, and then we all met again – months later. And I am still friends with all of them. Strange. Meant to be. March 13, 1992 was a “meant to be” kind of night.

I formally met Ann Marie while we were both in line for the bathroom at Lounge Ax, during a Pat show. I liked her instantly. It is hard to define her funniness. First of all, she is sharp as a tack. She has a way with words. Dammit, she has a way with words.

“New Year’s Eve is like open-mike night at Alcoholics Anonymous,” is just one example.

But it got to the point where all I had to do was look at her, and I would burst into laughter.

There were times during our friendship when I called her, in tears, at 3 am. And she would, as we called it, “talk me out of the clock-tower.” There were times during our friendship when she called me, in tears, at 3 am. And I would “talk her out of the clock-tower.”

When I moved to New York, one of the parting gifts she gave me was a little replica of a clock-tower. To remind me of her presence, even though we now would be separated.

She and I went to Ireland for the millennium. We stayed in a bed and breakfast in Dublin, and for the most part, hung out in the city – but we did take jaunts out into the countryside. We had a riotous time (well, except for when I contracted influenza and spent 2 days in bed, like a huge disembodied head sticking out of the covers).

We met up with two guys on our first night there – and they invited us to a private party for the millennium, which was just as well – because Dublin basically could not have cared less about Millennium Mania. The pubs closed at 10 pm, 11 pm, just like normal.

But there we were, at a private party in a pub off O’Connell Street, dancing about like maniacs with 80 year old men, 25 year old guys, and 4 year old girls. A multi-generational party, with live music, alcohol flowing, and general merriment and insanity. They all embraced “the American girls” with pride, love, and acceptance. When it became the year 2000, Ann Marie and I were standing in a circle with a rowdy group, all of us clutching pints of Guinness, singing “Sweet Caroline” at the TOPS of our lungs. We were beside ourselves with joy. We kept looking at each other, like: Is this the most fun you have ever had in your life??

I haven’t seen Ann in a couple of years, which is rather sad. I haven’t been back to Chicago since 2000 – the longest I have gone without a visit since I moved away.

But the bond remains with Ann Marie, my “dear friend” – my “cosmic tumbler” friend, my psychic twin.

Happy birthday, friend …

Here’s to the hope that you get whatever you want in life. You deserve it.